


The voice of his disposition

by ForErusSake



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Hearing Voices, How Do I Tag, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Russingon, Physical Abuse, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForErusSake/pseuds/ForErusSake
Summary: In the years after Maedhros was rescued from Thangorodrim by Fingon, Maglor tries to adapt. His brother has changed, and his behavior is changing Maglor. Battling the monsters inside his own head is hard enough, without having to deal with the monster his brother has become, too. Something has to change, before it is too late. Maybe it is already too late...





	The voice of his disposition

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for any mistakes language-wise, English is not my native language.
> 
> It's already in the tags, but it can't hurt to stress it once more.  
> WARNING:  
> \- descriptions of physical abuse  
> \- abusive inner voice  
> \- references to insanity  
> These are a(n important) part of the plot. If you feel uncomfortable reading any of this, or if any of these can be triggering for you, this is probably not a good story to read.

He can’t stand it.

He loathes it.

He hates it with whole his heart.

Maglor tries to loathe _him_ , he tries to hate Fingon.

He can’t.

Kind Fingon, brave Fingon, with his dark hair plaited with shining gold, his bright smile and his sparkling blue eyes. He can’t hate him. Not when Fingon is the only reason his brother is still alive.

_While you sat in your encampment and waited for your brother to die…_

So he pretends not to care, pretends not to notice the softly whispered words of comfort, the smiles, the promises of an eternal friendship, the brotherly embraces that last just a little bit too long.

He can’t hate Fingon, so he tries to hate his brother. He tries to hate Maedhros for who he is.

He’s a murderer. _So are you…_

He’s a kinslayer. _So are you…_

He’s a traitor. _So are you…_

He tries to hate Maedhros for everything he is, but he can’t, not when he himself blindly followed their father into this madness, too.

_Coward…_

So he tries to hate him for allowing it, for allowing himself to be coddled, for allowing Fingon to comfort him, get close to him, talk to him, touch him.

_He doesn’t allow you, does he? He much rather sees you in pain…_

“Are you sure they hung you up from your wrist? I could swear they used your ankle instead, all the blood rushing to your head must have addled your brain,” he spat. Maglor rarely lost his temper, but ever since his return his brother seemed intent on driving him up the wall.

“What are you talking about?” Maedhros asked, his voice intentionally monotone in feigned disinterest.

“You barely talk to me, yet you cling to that boy…”

Maedhros cut him off: “His name is Fingon, and he’s barely younger than you.”

Maglor tried to stay calm. The things Maedhros had gone through, they were horrible. It was only natural that he would gravitate towards his rescuer, he needed some time to readjust, to find himself again.

_What if he never does?_

“Why do you do this to me? Am I not your brother?” he asked, trying to keep his melodic voice steady.

“Yes, and yet, in all those years, you never tried to rescue me. Did you simply not care? Or…”

Maglor had heard more than enough. His brother was obviously not in the mood to do anything other than argue with him.

_Is he ever, these days?_

“Of course I cared, do you have any idea how hard it was for me…”

_Wrong choice of words, pumpkin._

“How hard it was for you? For you?!” Suddenly Maedhros’ hand was at his throat, crushing his windpipe. “I spent thirty years hanging from a ridge on Thangorodrim, hoping, praying, each day, that it would be my last!” He was choking. Black dots clouded his vision. He struggled in his brother’s surprisingly strong grip, clawed at his hand, trying to break free. “I waited for you to rescue me, I waited, and waited, and waited, and you never came!” Maglor tried to make a noise, tried to fight his way out of his brother’s vicelike grip, but he didn’t have the strength. With every second that passed, with every accusing word his brother spat in his face, the buzzing in his ears became louder, his vision more blurred, his grip on his brother’s arm weaker, and the weaker he became, the less he cared.

_Goodnight, sunshine._

Suddenly, air flooded his lungs, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath. He heard voices. He blinked the tears from his eyes and swallowed past the stinging pain in his throat. When he had recovered enough to listen to the voices he wished that he hadn’t.

The soft words of comfort, the quietly murmured reassurances, he couldn’t take it anymore. It made him feel sick. Are you alright, Maedhros? Just relax, Maedhros.

_They never ask after your health do they? Why would they? You left him to die…_

You’ll be fine, Maedhros. I’m here for you, Maedhros, I’ve always been here for you.

 _But_ you _weren’t…_

Fingon quietly ushered everyone out of the room, softly, gently told Maedhros to wait for him, then turned and closed the door behind him.

“Makalaurë, are you alright?”

_So, he does ask, what a surprise…_

“Go away, go tend to Maedhros, pity him all you want, I won’t have it.”

_You can’t help it, can you? You hurt everyone who ever tries to help you…_

“It’s a good thing I take care of him, you don’t even care about yourself anymore, how could you care for him?” Fingon said as he turned to leave.

“If you truly think I am the cold-hearted monster, you should’ve let him kill me.”

Fingon didn’t respond, he quietly closed the door behind him.

_But is he truly wrong? Is he?_

Maglor wasn’t sure anymore.

Maedhros didn’t talk to him for days after that incident. Maglor was fairly sure Fingon was intentionally keeping them apart, making sure they were never in the same room without him being there, too. Maglor tried to hate him for that, for treating him like a child who couldn’t solve this petty quarrel with his brother like an adult.

_Are you an adult?_

Still, he couldn’t hate him, no matter how hard he tried. It was normally so easy for him to hate people, these days, so easy to make people hate him. The look of ice-cold disdain that was almost permanently plastered onto his face was enough to make most people dislike him. But Fingon, sweet darling Fingon, was just so damn polite all the time. No matter how many insults Maglor spat in his face or muttered behind his back, Fingon kept looking at him with that kind, pitiful smile of his. No matter how hard Maglor tried, Fingon never took the bait.

_Except for once…_

“Is there anything that you are afraid of, Findekáno, anything at all?” Maglor asked him. They were sitting in Maedhros’ room. He had been so plagued by nightmares that he had refused to sleep, or take any rest, for that matter. In the end, the healers had been forced to drug him to sleep. The effort had earned one of them a black eye. The others had not been so lucky.

“I’m afraid to lose him,” Fingon responded, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Maglor chuckled and shook his head.

“Are you kidding me?” he sneered, unable to keep the disdain form his voice. “Stop with this act, Findekáno, stop pretending to care. Everyone knows you only saved him because he’s one of the few cousins you haven’t…”

Fingon cut him off: “Don’t you dare! He’s like a brother to me.” He growled.

“Well, he _is_ my brother!” Maglor snapped, “and I will not stand by and watch as he follows you around like a stray dog, while you turn him into a mindless puppet who dances to your strings! I stood by when he meekly handed over the crown to your father, when he gave up _his_ birth right for love of _you_! I will not…”

He didn’t get any further, for suddenly, Maedhros was awake and his fingers were locked tightly around Maglor’s right forearm.

“That’s it?” He said, and squeezed his arm. “Is that why you didn’t allow anyone to come and save me?” He squeezed harder, until it hurt.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I did it because I thought you were dead, because it would’ve been foolish to waste our resources on… aaah.” Maedhros grip on his arm kept tightening. He tried to break free, but it was useless.

“All because poor little Maglor desires a throne.” Maedhros sneered.

“I had it! I never wanted it! If I had had the chance I never would’ve left Valinor! I was trying to save our people!” Maglor screamed, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“Our people cannot be saved, Makalaurë! We’re doomed. When are you going to accept that?” Maedhros fairly screamed.

“Yes, _we_ are doomed, _we_ did this, _we_ are the murderers, _we_ are the monsters, not them. They never asked for any of this!” Maglor heatedly responded, desperately trying to fight back his tears.

“They followed us here because they wanted to.” Maedhros growled.

Maglor shook his head.

“They followed us here because they trusted us, Maitimo, and we abused that trust.” His voice softened. “Abuse is in our nature, Nelyo. We led them into a battle that they didn’t understand, that _we_ didn’t understand. They killed for us. We broke them. Just like we broke ourselves.”

Maedhros’ hold on his arm had become a dull ache, his grip so strong that Maglor couldn’t feel his hand anymore.

_That’s what Maedhros must feel like all the time…_

“What do you want, Káno?” His brother asked, suddenly sounding tired.

“I just want us to be whole again!” He screamed, and his scream turned into a cry of pain as Maedhros grip on his arm turned so violent it snapped the bone in two.

Maglor stumbled backwards, eyes flitting from Maedhros’ expression of sad indifference to Fingon’s look of horror and back.

“Maglor…” Fingon whispered.

“You really should have let him kill me,” he responded, his voice barely audible, as he closed the door behind him.

_Well done, pumpkin…_

The healers didn’t ask what had happened to his arm. They set it and then left him to his own devices.

It was better that way. He wouldn’t have allowed them to see his tears.

Like his throat, his arm healed with no visible reminder of what had happened. He stopped trying after that incident. He kept his mouth shut.

_Your ‘pumpkin’ is gone, pumpkin. Stop pretending like you can ever bring him back…._

Maglor spent as much of his time away as possible. He joined in on every hunting or scouting trip he could afford to join in on. Slowly he started to fall into a pattern. Wake up, eat a little, acknowledge Maedhros’ presence with a curt nod, ignore Fingon, ride out with the hunters, take out his frustration on a band of orcs, return, eat even less, lull himself to sleep with a haunting song, repeat.

Every time he went out, he returned more stone-faced than before. With every orc he killed, he cared less about the innocent sailors at Alqualondë. With every Elf who passed him by, asking him if his voice could produce any more depressing songs, he cared less about the people whom he had once entertained with his music in Tirion. With every prisoner that same voice brought to his knees, screaming in terror, he cared less about the stinging pain in his throat and the taste of blood on his tongue.

_What’s the matter, sunshine? Trying to prove them right?_

“Makalaurë?” Celegorm asked.

_Come on, admit it._

“Káno.” Caranthir said.

_You’re not a monster._

“Maglor!” Curufin called out.

_You are much worse than that._

“Please…” Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. “Please, just leave me alone…” He hugged his knees close to his chest.

“We just wanted to hear your opinion on…”

He jumped to his feet.

“I said, leave me alone!”

His brothers packed their stuff and left the room, softly whispering amongst themselves. “Is he okay?” “Why is he acting like this?” “He frightens me...”

 _See? A monster hurts people because it’s in its nature to do so. A monster has no choice but to hurt. You, pumpkin, you_ want _to hurt people. You_ need _to hurt others. You need to hear their screams, to see their pain, to smell their fear, because you need all that to drown out your own pain, your own pathetic feelings of misery and despair._

The next time a hunting party went out, he made sure to join them. He didn’t return for quite some time, and when he did, he appeared to be more rested than he had been in a long time. No one asked him what had brought on the change, for which he was thankful. He still preferred to keep his tears to himself.

He was broken out of his reverie by the sound of voices.

“What?” asked Maedhros.

“I have to leave, I’m sorry.” Fingon responded, his voice gentle, as if he was trying to explain some difficult adult subject to a young child.

“I told you to stop using that voice on me,” Maedhros said, “Surely you can convince your father…”

Fingon shook his head.

“It was not a request from my father, Maitimo, it was an order from my king.”

Maedhros flinched at the name.

“What if I had never given the crown to him, what if _I_ had been your king?” he said, his voice rising.

“You’re not!” Fingon shouted, jumping to his feet. Maglor held his breath.

_It’s starting…_

“Then what am I to you?” Maedhros whispered.

“You’re my friend, my brother…” he started, but Maedhros interrupted him:

“Leave.”

Fingon flinched.

“Please, Maitimo…”

Maglor opened his mouth to say something, but his brother started forward and violently grabbed the front of Fingon’s tunic.

“Don’t call me that! I said, leave!”

Fingon’s eyes went wide as he tried to free himself from his friend’s grasp.

“Enough, Nelyo! Let him go.” Maglor called out as he stood up. To his surprise, his brother complied. Gently, he helped his brother back to his chair and told him to stay there. Then he ushered Fingon out of the room.

_Impressive…_

“What did I do wrong?” Fingon asked.

_Everything._

“Nothing. He just needs some time. So do you. It would do the both of you good to be away from each other for a while,” Maglor responded, and sighed.

“When did you become so wise, Makalaurë?” his cousin asked, weariness seeping into his voice.

“Hunting trip,” Maglor answered, and shot him a wry smile.

“Good to know, I’ll be sure to join the next party my father sends out.” Fingon turned around. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder.

_Don’t._

“Good,” Maglor responded, “he still needs you, just not right now, and not all the time.”

He had tried to hate Fingon, for a long time, and he was glad he’d never been able to.

When Maglor went back into the room, his brother was still there.

“Who am I, Káno?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

_A murderer and a traitor._

Maglor grabbed a chair and sat down next to him.

“You are Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion,” he responded, wrapping his arms around his brother, “and you are my brother.”

He tried not to flinch as his brother’s hand grasped his right forearm. He tried not to think of the sound of bone breaking, or the feeling of a hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry,” his brother whispered.

“I know,” he said and hugged him close.

_What are you planning to do next, sunshine?_

“I’m going to heal him.”

 _How are you going to heal_ him _, if you are just as broken?_

“We’re going to help heal each other.”

_You’re pathetic._

“That’s a compliment, coming from you.”

_Murderer…_

“Who are you talking to?” Maedhros asked him.

“Just myself, no need to worry, pumpkin.” Maglor responded with a gentle voice.

“That’s a name you haven’t used on me in a long time.” Maedhros chuckled.

“I know, sunshine, I just thought I should start doing so again.”

Maedhros outright laughed now.

“You’re insane,” he said.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, reviews are always appreciated :)


End file.
